Staten Island's parolees get big new helping hand

STATEN ISLAND, N.Y. -- Some hunched forward, others slouched in their chairs and crossed their arms defiantly over their chests, but all 89 parolees listened yesterday to the speakers at St. Philip’s Baptist Church, Port Richmond, with the quiet attention of honor students.

The message was about opportunity, and all the resources available to help them make a worthwhile life beyond prison bars.

"All you need is a desire. If you come with a desire and you have a will, there is a way," Patricia Gatling, head of the New York City Commission on Human Rights, told the group, all of whom are back home on Staten Island after doing time for felony crimes.

"Our job is not to lock you up. We’re here to help," said Andrea Evans, the chairwoman and CEO of the New York State Division of Parole.

She asked how many were unemployed, and nearly all hands shot up. "If you have zeal to get a job and get it done, you can make it happen," she said.

It was the inaugural event of ComALERT (Community and Law Enforcement Resources Together), which will offer the borough’s roughly 500 parolees a network of assistance with everything from finding a job to getting housing and psychological support during their "transition" — deceptively soft-sounding law enforcement parlance for the very difficult adjustment period after walking out of prison.

Why this borough, why now?

"Because of all the incidents that have been happening here; it’s the squeaky wheel that gets the oil," said Commissioner Gatling, ticking off some of the heart-wrenching crimes committed here this summer, including the string of alleged bias attacks and the Port Richmond mother’s murder of her children four children (she committed suicide). "When these kinds of things are happening in a community, it’s a cry for help."

In such a compact area, Ms. Gatling said, parolees often know — or know of — the people committing the crimes. If one-time felons transform themselves into role models, the positive impact can be far-reaching, she said. "They know what’s going on and where it’s going on," she said. "It’s a public safety issue: Either we will ignore we have a population who is having a particularly difficult time, especially in this economy, or we can do something about it."

The program takes as its model an initiative launched in 1999 in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, a community plagued by a spike in crime and where, like the Island, there had been a paucity of services.

Without job skills, education, access to housing, counseling and inspiration to carve out new priorities, the deck is stacked against parolees. Statistics show that more than 60 percent of the people who are convicted of crimes get locked up again within three years of getting out of prison.

"As I sit here and look at all of you men, it takes me back to the day I was sitting in your seat," said Gerald Howard, who grew up in the Park Hill section of Clifton and spent 18 years behind bars for robbery. After his release he got a job, put down roots through church and now runs Unorthodox Angels, a New Brighton-based group dedicated to helping parolees get on their feet. "Nobody in this room is born a criminal, but a lot of men fall into that trap. There are people in this room who want to help you."

The owner of Tompkinsville restaurant Against Da Grill, Karron Mangin, looked around the room, calling out to people he recognized from the neighborhood. "Getting people to believe in you is very hard, especially where we came from," he said, describing his journey from criminal to businessman. "Once you take that first step you’ll see there are people, right there, getting behind you."

Despite the message of hope, some attendees weren't sold as they walked out of the room. "Nah; I have what you call a negative attitude," said one of the men when asked by a reporter whether he would take advantage of the help.

But for others, this straight talk and warm offer might be just what they need to turn the corner.

"If this will help me with my education, I'm looking into it," said 22-year-old Jonathan who is living with his mother in Park Hill after release from prison upstate, where he had been since the age of 19 and earned his GED. "The frustration of coming back to regular life, it's been tough."

Andres, of New Brighton, 31, said he too is ready to change. "You get caught up dealing drugs and you're out there on a ledge and you have tunnel vision," he said. "People come out from jail and expectations are high but you're looking for instant gratification. If you come from the streets you have skills, like they were saying. I'm going to use those skills to the positive."